


The Turning Tide

by china_shop



Category: White Collar
Genre: Episode Tag, Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-15
Updated: 2011-07-15
Packaged: 2017-10-21 10:44:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It is too late." Neal pulled off his woolen hat and crumpled it in his hand. He rubbed the back of his neck tiredly. "This isn't about the art, Peter."</p><p>Episode tag for 3.06. Negative references to Neal/Sara.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Turning Tide

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to dragonfly and mergatrude for awesome beta. <3

Peter flung his car door open and raced on foot to the water's edge. It was rush hour, and Diana, Jones and the rest of the team were still fifteen minutes away. He'd only got here in time because El had called and told him something was up. When he checked Neal's location with the Marshal's office, they said Neal was at the docks. Peter's gut told him Neal was running, that the tracker would cut out any second. He had to get to Neal first.

A hundred and fifty yards away, two men in knit hats were unhooking mooring ropes for a mid-sized commercial fishing boat, looping them into heavy coils on the deck. One of the men was Neal.

Peter ran toward him. "Neal! What are you doing? Stop!"

Neal looked up, squinting against the late afternoon sun. When he saw it was Peter, he dropped his gaze again immediately, as if he couldn't bring himself to meet Peter's eye. He bent to straighten a pile of rope, his jaw clenched tight. There may have been regret in the set of his shoulders, but Peter couldn't be sure.

"I can't stop," said Neal.

"You can." Peter slowed to a halt across from the boat. There was only a few feet of water between them, but Neal was physically out of reach. Peter could still talk to him though. He left his gun in its holster, despite the dangerous-looking men behind Neal who were lashing a canvas over a stack of wooden crates. "You know I can't let you leave."

"You have to," said Neal. "You realize you don't actually literally own me, right?" His anger was sharp but controlled.

Peter tilted his head, trying to work out what was going on. "We have an agreement, Neal."

"Not anymore." Neal shook his head and looked up. "Listen, Peter, I tried to do what you wanted me to do, to be who you wanted me to be. I tried, but it was a mistake, and I can't undo it. I can't go back. The only way out is forward."

The words had a desperate edge, and Peter clung to that as proof that Neal didn't want to go. There was a problem, but they could fix it together. "You can stay and face the consequences," he told Neal, his voice hoarse. "I'll stand by you. We can work this out. You haven't sold any of the Nazi loot yet—it's not too late."

"It is too late." Neal pulled off his woolen hat and crumpled it in his hand. He rubbed the back of his neck tiredly. "This isn't about the art, Peter."

Peter frowned. When El had called fifteen minutes ago, she'd said a Degas had turned up on their doorstep. That meant Neal had the art, as Peter had suspected all along, but now Neal was saying that wasn't why he had to leave. What else could it be? "Is it Mozzie? Is he holding something over you?"

"It's not Moz." Neal shielded his eyes against the sun and looked at Peter.

"Then what is it? Tell me!"

"It's you." Neal shrugged. "It's Sara."

"Sara?" Peter must have looked as confused as he felt, because Neal's mouth twisted with genuine amusement.

It faded quickly. "You wanted me and Sara together," he said. "I know that, and I tried to make it work. Thought you might be right. But it's not who I am, and—"

"—and you think the best way to break up with her is to flee the country with stolen Nazi plunder?" Peter finished for him, more perplexed than angry. Neal had come a long way in the last two years: he was a con, but that wasn't all he was anymore. "You need to man up."

"You're the one who described her as a tornado in heels," Neal reminded him.

Peter frowned. "Wait a minute. I thought you liked Sara. What went wrong? The two of you have been pretty cozy lately."

Neal looked him in the eye. "It wasn't like that until you made it like that. You ordered us to come to dinner at your place; El gave Sara ideas. You guys weren't exactly subtle about it either. What was I supposed to do?"

"I—" Peter took a breath and made himself think back over the last weeks, remembering the relief that Neal might finally be settling down into a real life with a law-abiding woman. Someone who'd make him stay.

"I don't want to hurt her, and I really don't want to make her angry." Neal sounded as if his mind were made up. "If I leave, she won't think it's personal. If I stay—Sterling Bosch doesn't exactly treat alleged thieves with restraint or moderation, in case you haven't noticed, and Sara's had me arrested before."

Peter wondered if Mozzie had influenced this chain of logic, if he'd convinced Neal it was more hassle to stay than to leave. "If you run, I'll catch you and I'll be really pissed off," he told Neal. "Who are you more afraid of?"

Apparently that was a tough call. Neal closed his eyes and sighed, loud enough that it carried over the sound of the waves slopping against the dock. "Peter—"

"I was wrong." It was a last-ditch effort, but it was true too. Peter had put Neal in a difficult position without even realizing. Neal, the romantic. Neal, who'd striven over and over to earn Peter's trust and respect—when he wasn't running around stealing priceless artworks or chasing revenge. Peter scrubbed his hand over his face. "I shouldn't have interfered in your love life. I shouldn't have put that kind of pressure on you." He met Neal's gaze across the gap and spread his hands. "I just wanted you to be happy. I want that for you."

"I know," said Neal. "I tried."

"I know you did." Peter looked past Neal. The other men had finished their work and were heading to the bow of the boat. The rumbling of the engine intensified and diesel fumes filled the air. There was a free-standing wooden gangplank propped against the canvas-covered crates. "Stay."

Neal shifted his weight. "I've never broken up with anyone face to face, except when Kate—" He trailed off. "I always just left them something expensive and disappeared."

So the Degas wasn't a taunt; it was goodbye. Peter swallowed past the lump in his throat. "Did you leave something for Sara?"

"Something she's been chasing for a long time," said Neal. "That's another reason I can't stay." But if he really wanted to leave, he would have told Peter to get lost and disappeared below deck by now. He was still talking, and that meant he wanted Peter to get him out of this mess.

"Come on, Neal," said Peter. "Trust me. Get off the boat." Neal glanced over his shoulder toward the gangplank, and Peter could see him weighing the costs. "Come home with me," Peter continued. "El's getting takeout. We can sort this out between the three of us."

Neal stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, riding the swell of the tide as if they had all the time in the world. As if he weren't about to sail out of Peter's reach and commit himself to the life of a fugitive. The boat was going to leave any second. Doubt was written all over his face. "Sort out the art?"

"The art, the Raphael and your relationship with Sara. I don't have a lot of experience at breaking up with people, but if you need advice in that area, El is your woman. And as far as I know, none of them brought criminal charges afterwards." Peter pointed him toward the gangplank, and Neal sighed again and nodded—thank God, thank _God_. He went to get it and carry it back.

He dropped the gangplank across the chasm between the deck and the dock. It landed with a clang, and Neal put one foot on it. "Elizabeth dated a lot before you came along?"

"My hot wife?" said Peter, reaching out to him, unable to help himself. "She was beating them off with sticks."

The boat rose and rolled slightly, jogging the gangplank, and Neal grabbed at Peter's hand, nearly pulling him off balance and sending them both plunging into the dark waves. Against the odds, Peter found a foothold, a crack in the asphalt, and yanked hard. They staggered back together, reeling slightly, but not falling. A loud scraping sound followed by a splash announced that the gangplank had dislodged completely.

"That was close." Neal's words were warm on Peter's cheek.

"Yeah," said Peter. He drew a shaky breath. He had Neal. The rest of the team would alert the coastguard and retrieve the art, and between them, they'd find Mozzie and figure out what to do with him. Peter would deal with that later. As long as Neal had come back of his own volition, it was going to be okay.

Peter slung his arm across Neal's shoulder and started walking him toward the car. "Come on, Victor Moreau."

"You know about Victor?" Neal halted in his tracks, eyes round and startled.

Peter loved catching him off guard. It was his favorite pastime that didn't include El. He smiled fondly and ruffled Neal's hair. "I know a lot of things."


End file.
